Where the Lover Never Leaves
by zevgirl
Summary: Short ficlets or drabbles, non-chronological, involving f!Shepard, her friends, and her lover, Thane Krios. Will mostly be set in ME2 and 3. This is not Elizabeth Shepard from my other story.


**The Eve of Battle**

In a worn out and whiskey-addled fog, Shepard pauses at the memorial wall. Again. She reads the names, slowly, reverently, and her eyes glaze over when she reaches the only plaque that matters now.

_Thane Krios_

God, how she misses him, well beyond what her training dictates, and certainly beyond reason. More than his body, more than his touch, she misses _him_, wants to see him, wants to talk to him. The easy rhythm of their relationship took her through the light and the dark, with Thane holding fast to her hand, and her heart. She longs to hear his steady voice telling her how she should handle the emptiness consuming her now, the nervousness, the fear as the Normandy heads for Earth. Only once before had she been at peace on the eve of a momentous battle, when Thane was at her side, his own melancholy thoughts eased by her tender kisses those many months ago, but now….

With eyes drifting closed, she reaches out, imagining him there, right in front of her, and it's so real she feels her fingers brush along his collar before draping an arm over his shoulder, his hand taking hers, and then pressing it to his heart_._ "I've got you, Siha, and I'm never letting go," he would tell her. And she would cling to him, nestling her face into his neck, accepting it all.

She begins to sway on her feet, then shivers when Kaidan rests a steadying hand on her shoulder. A last glimmer of hopefulness shines in his gaze, but she waves him off, the sting of tears building. His head drops as he leaves and she's already forgotten his gesture.

The plaque calls to her again, Thane's shadow lingering just outside her periphery. The metal burns her fingertips as she traces the letters, repeating his name over and over until it doesn't sound _right_ anymore, another name lost to history.

She wills herself to glance at the life support doors, the room bereft of his belongings for so long, except for his mug. She could never bring herself to remove it because it was all she had left of him. Most days she found some peace sitting at his table, talking to him as if he were there, retelling the events of the day. But the fleeting moments of tranquility always ended when her head dropped into her hands and her shoulders began to shake, noisy sobs bursting from her lungs. _Would this time be any different?_ she wondered.

Heavy steps take her inside the room, to his chair, his place in her world. The chair creaks when she sits down, but she can't remember if it made any noise when he sat there. No, she thinks, it never did because he always moved silently, deliberately, mute as a lover's glance across a crowded room. Silent as death most days.

Except the last day.

Her fingers wrap around the mug, and she holds it to her nose. She can almost smell the herbal tea, taste it as if she were kissing him as she always did after he'd taken a sip. A memory sends her back to the last moment, the rattling of his voice, the ragged breaths he took as he gripped her hand in his, her head resting on his shoulder when he said his final admission.

"I love you, Siha. I love you."

She suddenly wonders why he had never told her before that moment, but now, knowing it was probably the night before her own death, it dawns on her: He didn't want to burden her with his love. Stupid man, she thinks as the tears begin to flow. But then again, she'd never said it either, for the same reason, she supposes. But words weren't necessary when they moved together late into the night, a tangle of limbs and a chorus of moans. No, in those moments they knew what they meant to each other. Still mean to each other.

Every word, every prayer he had said held truth for her now. She had learned to laugh again, unafraid to love deeply and selflessly, even when she knew what the future held for them. She believed then, as she does now, because of him.

And yet she wants to throw the cup at the wall, to watch it shatter into little pieces, so it's no longer useful, simply broken, as she is. Does she have just enough strength and pride left to see it through to the end, to save them all, to make him proud? She presses the mug to her chest, hard against her ribs, her heart beating fast, and she vows to rally. So many promises to keep, people to save, memories to preserve. She's ready for it all this one last time. She has to be.

Shepard rises from the chair and takes the mug with her, her fingers threading through the handle. She'll stash it in her gear somehow, taking him with her to the last battle. She smiles thinking of his face, his lips on hers, his breath in her ear. A comfort and warmth suddenly wash over her, a prayer drenching her in a new hope.

_Guide me, Kalahira, to where the lover never leaves. Guide me across the sea._

Soon enough, she thinks, squaring her shoulders. He won't be alone for much longer. And neither will she.

_**A/N:** It always bums me out when I go into life support when playing ME3 and see Thane's mug just sitting there. This is a little drabble that's been niggling at my brain. Props to Biff and Zute, who never laugh at my emotional outbursts regarding the characters in the Bioware world! _


End file.
